


(it's) time to testify

by candidrose



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Developing Relationship, First Time, Fluff, M/M, OR IS IT, One Night Stands, Power Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Praise Kink, Trans Connor, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candidrose/pseuds/candidrose
Summary: Connor Stern, lead vocalist of band Jericho, meets struggling artist Hank Anderson on the night that he believes his career may well be over.Or.A Star is Born AU.





	(it's) time to testify

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo. First hankcon fic, what's up?
> 
> Also it is 3am so I'm sorry for any incoherence, welp.
> 
> Yes, Connor is trans. Just a head's up that he refers to his dick as such, and there is a part at the end of the chapter that features his top surgery scars. Please stay safe, peeps, feel free to click off of this fic if that triggers you.
> 
> This essentially came about after I saw A Star is Born for the dozenth time and though, huh. Hank would look good playing a guitar. So, ALAS!?
> 
> P.S. shoutout to sarah and morgan for listening to me ramble, cry, and question them to NO end about this au. I love u both <3

They’re at the height of success when everything goes to shit.

They’ve just finished a gig, one of their biggest yet, the kind that has Connor thanking his fucking lucky stars and every entity in existence every minute that passes. Thirty-thousand people, sold out, full of people echoing his music.

His ears still ring.

He bends them at the lobe, rubbed at them with a grimace as if it were to diminish the screams that still continued to carry even backstage. That, paired with deafening silence and the press, was something he did not appreciate about his job.

“Hey, could you check the mic sometime before tomorrow? It seemed a little robotic tonight, is all. Probably nothing but.. I wanted to ask if you could check it out?” He nods to the sound tech, passing over his mic and ear guards before a clap on the shoulder.

The guy’s cheeks fill and he nods, “Right away.”

And that’s what he hates. You hear it all the time in the media, self-inflated pop stars complaining that they don’t get treated like a human being behind walls of cash. Used by people to propel themselves up, that kind of thing. And he hates that he knows every bit of it is true. People walking on eggshells around him, treating him like.. Like fucking royalty.

It’s enough to drive anyone insane if you think too hard about it. Hence why he didn’t. Not too much, anyway.

He loved everything else. Loved performing, hearing his own words spill from other people’s mouths right back at him. Thousands of people packed together, friends and strangers alike, just to see his shitty little band belt out music. It was too good to be true, some days. Didn’t fucking feel real any of the time.

“We did good tonight,” Markus grins, breathless, into his ear. Arm over Connor’s shoulders, he drums at them with a single drumstick as they make their way backstage. A habit that carried over from the stage to off of it. “You did, even if your mic packed in.”

“You were alright too, I suppose,” Connor’s grin is bright even when Markus’ elbow ends up knocking his rib in jest.

The four of them are always like this after a gig; amped up, hearts thrumming a million miles a minute and full of adrenaline. The crew are the same, from the cooks to the security and up to North. It’s an insane high that’s, admittedly, grown infectious. When they first started out, playing anywhere that would take them, they’d split the earnings and go home. Maybe linger if there was a free bar.

Now?

He didn’t know if he could go without it. Honestly. Performing was his life, he knew that when he signed up for this, and he couldn’t see anything else he’d rather be doing.

“Mm, thank you.” Markus chuckles, looking over to Josh and Simon. The former had his fist clenched at his side, refusing to look Simon in the face as their voices rise above the noise of equipment being moved about. “What’s-”

“Tell them. He says he wants to fucking quit,” Simon hisses, cheeks red.

Josh ignores him, favors a sniffle instead, and Simon tugs at his hair, scoffs. “He wants to fucking quit.”

Connor tries not to take it personally that he ignores him in favor of pulling Markus directly into it.

Josh looks down at the floor, his chest heaving in uneven breaths. He’s serious, then.

They’ve fought before. Of course they have. Being in each other’s pockets near every day, album after album, tour after tour… it does that. It isn’t natural to be with three people for that long within that intensity. But never has Josh lost his temper. At least, not like this.

“Are you-” Connor cuts himself off, just as Markus cuts in with a delicate _fuck you_ , and he’s glad because he can’t bring himself to say anything without exploding.

“Why,” He gets out eventually, lump in his throat and lead in his chest. Simon has retired to the crate carrying extra stage equipment, hand pinched at the bridge of his nose. Markus is hovering between both he and Josh, wringing his hands together. Ever the glue of the band.

“I just can’t do all of,” Josh looks up, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, gestures between the four of them, “this, anymore. It was fun, for a while, and I love all of you, you know that. I just-”

Connor blinks away hot tears, turns his chin up. “What changed?”

“I’m starting to hate it. All of it. The constant attention, the shit they make up about me? My family? I get that this is your thing, Connor, okay? I get it. It’s just not worth it anymore, not for me.”

“It’s okay,” Markus shakes his head, rests a shaking hand on Josh’s shoulder, because of course he does. More of a leader than Connor could ever wish to be. Better man than him because Connor wants nothing more than to feel his fist connect with Josh’s nose.

“No it’s absolutely not, are you kidding me?” Simon turns to Connor, face torn up. His cheeks are still pink. “Connor, tell me you’re not fucking settling for this, too? He can’t just abandon us like this.”

“He’s right. Josh, we need you. This isn’t- we’re meant to be performing in a couple days! We have half a tour to finish.” Connor pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s career suicide. Please don’t do this. Not now.”

Josh steps back, settles his mic down on the equipment box Simon is perched on. He notices that he doesn’t even have his stage clothes on.

“I hate myself for doing this to you, all of you. But I’ll hate myself more if I stay. I really will. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever, I need a drink,” Connor bites at his lip as he decides, feels the skin split under pressure, and turns in the opposite direction from Markus calling his name. He knows a car will be waiting for him.

* * *

The bar he’s dropped off at is unfamiliar and Connor is glad for it.

No explaining away why some big shot is skulking away at the back of a bar drinking his sorrows away like every cliche gone wrong. No getting photographed by preteens and moms alike when they think he doesn’t notice, having to explain to North why dozens of photos of him getting shitfaced ended up on the 'top trending' page of TMZ.

Though, it’s not like it mattered much anymore. The only thing he’s minutely good at and it's taken away from him in less than a minute because Josh decides he wants out. And he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do.

_Fuck._

He presses the tip of the bottle to his mouth, downs the rest of the contents until his throat burns. It’s lukewarm at this point from how long he’s been nursing it, condensation long-since soaked up by his palm. Great.

There’s a small group at the end of the bar that keep sparing him glances, as if they’ve seen his face before but can’t quite place it. Maybe seen it in a Target once or twice, on top of their kid’s stereo, maybe. But they don’t move to bother him. Offer him a smile when he catches them in the act and nothing more. He appreciates them at least pretending not to know their kid’s role model is some miserable fuck who isn’t nearly tipsy enough.

He makes a note to come here more often whenever he’s in town.

There’s a guy finishing up his set on stage, spitting his lyrics into the mic, trombone and everything. It’s peaceful enough that it has him tapping his fingers against the coaster, chipped red of his nails ever present.

“You like?” The bartender nods at him, in the middle of cleaning out a whiskey glass. His badge reads Jeffrey.

“I mean,” Connor’s hum is drowned out by a particularly loud note, and the both of them try not to show their cringe. “It isn’t awful.”

“Lucky for you, you dropped in on free mic night.” Jeffrey snorts at his groan. “Couple more folks are on after. If your music’s anything to go off of, I think you’re really gonna like one of the next guy; my buddy Hank.”

He perks up. “Yeah? He any good?”

Jeffrey settled him with a look, deadpans. “If he weren’t, you think I’d be telling you anything about him?”

He blinked. Hank. He imagined some full-of-himself, snobbish type. Blonde quiff. Maybe a piano.

“Huh. We’ll see.”

The rest of the acts follow the previous in the same way, all bleeding into one chorus of mediocre 70’s folk covers. Then Jeffrey’s nodding at him to watch the stage.

The first thing he registers is the chords being struck. They fill the air, start off strong, as if being played with the practice of an experienced musician. Like the instrument is an extended limb of this _Hank_. It’s clear he knows his way around the instrument, has years of practice learning just how to work it's strings perfectly. It’s silent save for the familiar tune made somehow grittier than he remembers.

He turned in his chair at the first line sung, caught sight of a graying beard and blonde hair. Broad shoulders atop a wide, tall frame and, fuck, was the guy was hot. The wanting-him-to-fuck-his-brains out kind.

Connor’s throat bobbed as he watched the guy perform, mesmerized by his voice and the hooded, blue eyes that he swore kept skirting over to him. For lack of anything better to do, ringing his fingers together in his lap, he meets the man’s gaze and gives a smile as he pushes up his glasses.

He swears Hank’s mouth lifts up in between verses, tongue peeking out as he breathes out a laugh, but that might just be his dick talking.

He watches the rest of his set in fascination, barely touching his drink. Hank treats the stage exactly how a natural performer would. Works the crowd, has them hooked with every chord and note change, every little smirk sent their way. His guitar is a little worn, evidently well-loved, and, Connor notes at the end of the set, adorns a little pride sticker.

Jeffrey tops him up without a word, snorts at Connor’s distracted, half-assed thanks.

Hank starts up something unfamiliar, more folksy and less of the heavy music backing his vocals. It’s simple, intimate, and Connor decides it's his favorite so far. The rest of his set all rolls into one chorus of heavy guitar and raspy drawl, and he wonders how exactly a talent like his hasn’t become a household name yet.

He finishes up to applause, obviously, because every fucking person in this room is as enamored as Connor is. Red tinges Hank’s cheeks as he grins an unsure thank you, almost as if he can’t comprehend just why he received the reaction he has, and Connor is just a little entranced.

“Still unsure?” Jeffrey raises a brow, sticking his hand up in a still wave, presumably to Hank as he makes his way off the stage and disappears down a corridor.

Connor swallows.

“He’s probably gone back there to go freshen up. You’re looking for the second door, greenroom of sorts. Can’t miss it.”

“I didn’t-”

Jeffrey settles him a look, squints. Connor’s cheeks flare. “I have eyes, kid. Go say hi.”

He doesn’t register just how much he didn’t think it through until he’s at the door.

Shit. How the hell does he talk himself out of this one? Oh, see, I liked your music and I kind of want you to fuck me into the wall until I scream? Right.

“Excuse me,” The door opens, a black man sporting FBI gear brushes past him. He stops in his tracks, turns to face Connor with wide eyes, and he tries his hardest to act like he wasn’t just having a breakdown over this man he’s apparently buddies with.

“It’s all good.”

“I’m sorry, are you Connor Stern?” The guy’s cheeks redden, eyes wide as he takes in Connor’s appearance. He swallows, and Connor watches him gather himself as he thinks about what a mistake this was. “I mean, of course you’re- uh. I know exactly who you are, don’t know why I asked. I’m a big fan of your stuff, my wife and kid, too, actually.”

“Oh,um,” Connor aids, an abrupt chuckle escaping as they stand in the open doorway. He can see Hank watching in his peripheral vision, hiding his smile in his palm, and it makes him squirm. “Then thank you, I guess? It means a lot.”

The guy nods, hands shaking as his grin grows impossibly wide. Connor can feel his own widen, impossible not to, and grips his arm.

“Look, you’re saving lives and doing important shit that means something, every single day. Prancing around a stage kind of just.. pales in comparison, y’know. It’s all good.”

The guy turns a deeper shade of red. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that, my kids love you. We always have your stuff playing in the house.”

He breathes out a laugh, gestures back inside the room where Hank sits and Connor tries his best not to stare.

Except he really doesn’t at all.

“Jesus, Chris. Let him breathe for fuck’s sake.”

Hank stands and turns in their direction, one arm over his chest and the other’s hand extended out to him. Bare arms. That are muscled. And likely bigger than his head.

“Sorry about him, he doesn’t know when to fuckin’ quit, uh, guess you gathered that already.” He offers a smile, “I’m Hank Anderson.”

“Connor, as you know, I guess?” Connor pulls his hand back and brings them together, crossing his arms. Doesn’t know what to do. “I liked your voice a lot.”

Hank snorts, follows the movement of Connor’s hand and meets his eyes with his own sparkling. “You did, huh?”

Everything about him just makes Connor’s fucking mouth water. “I meant- you’re a great musician. And it's nice to meet you, I’m-”

“The front man of Jericho.” Hank finishes for him. Shrugs at the surprise that morphs his face. “I have eyes and a television. You’ve been all over it lately, y’know. I’m not that outta touch.”

Connor fights the urge to apologize to him, for some dumb reason. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. Shouldn’t be, not when his career is in a ditch and all. He’s surprised North isn’t on his ass as he stands here.

Probably took the same coward’s way out as Connor by getting shitfaced and dealing with whatever may be tomorrow.

“Uh, just Connor, I hate the full name drop thing. Makes me sound like a complete ass. And it’s- it’s fine, actually, about Chris. I’ve dealt with much worse.”

“Alright, just Connor then,” Hank smiles at that, head cocked in interest. “You got me interested. What’s the most batshit you’ve dealt with? And none of the fake shit people say on talk shows.”

“The most.. hm. There’s been a lot.” Connor leans against the door frame for lack of better to do, folding his arms as he thinks. Or, tries not to think about how thick Hank’s fingers were. Completely covering his own.

_You got me interested._

He clears his throat. “We were in Dallas like two months back. Got a voodoo doll with my ex’s name engraved in it from a woman. Typical soccer mom type, y’know. She gave Markus a china doll with its eyes carved in.”

“Jesus,” Hank snorts out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Hell, of course it was Texas. Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Texas is a whole other state of mind,” Connor straightens his glasses. “You’ve been?”

Hank chuckles, eyes dropping to follow Connor’s hand. “Couple times, yeah. Fucking odd there, felt like I couldn’t connect to the place the entire time. ‘Specially for a Michigan man like myself. I’m just not built for that kind of environment, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m from Detroit, actually.” He blurts out. Because apparently that’s how he talks now. No thought to it.

Hank, to his credit, pretends not to have clearly read that somewhere already, smiles up at him. Doesn’t mention Connor sitting down on the couch by the door, does laugh his ass off when his belt gets caught on a throw pillow.

“Mm, I thought I recognized the accent.” Comes between dying laughs, and then he licks his lips. “Me too.”

Connor forgets how to work his tongue. This is how he dies, right here, practically sober and at the will of a bear’s tongue.

“So why are you out here?” He settles on, watches Hank’s fingers dance along the desk a second too long. “You’re a long way from Detroit.”

If Hank notices, he doesn’t mention it. The man cracks his knuckles in an otherwise silent room, and shrugs. There’s still people performing outside, voices nothing more than an echo.

It’s only hit him that Chris isn’t outside anymore when he looks about as Hank clears his throat. He only feels a mild sense of guilt for not noticing his absence sooner.

Hank leans back in his chair, runs his hands down his thighs, and Connor’s mind blanks. “Haven’t been back there in a while, actually. Been here, there and everywhere else, though.”

Connor’s not sure why he asks. He regrets it almost immediately after. “How long are you in town?”

Hank’s brow quirks up. He angles himself all proper against the back of the chair, legs spread, and Connor’s mouth waters. “What’s it to you?”

He blames the few shitty beers sitting in his gut for the liquid confidence he never possessed.

Cocking his head to the side, “Well, I was hoping you’d want to take me somewhere to drink around here that doesn’t have peering eyes and mold growing up the wall, so.”

Hank peers down at him. Makes his toes curl. “What if I say no?”

Connor bites into a smile, corrects his glasses. “You won’t.”

“Awful presumptuous of you, kid.”

Connor shrugs. “I’m a good judge of character.”

Hank hums, watches him stand before he does so himself. His tongue peeks between his lips to wet them, turned up into a slow smile. He pats Connor’s bicep, lets his hand linger a couple seconds too long for it to be casual.

Fucking shit.

“There’s a good place not too far from here,” Hank drawls from the doorway, and it just dawns on Connor that his voice is apparently a turn-on to him too. Add that to just about everything he’s discovered about the man already. “You mind waiting on me to get ready?”

Connor swallows, nods. “Not at all, I’ll be outside.”

* * *

Jeffrey watches him take a seat back at the bar, offers the tiniest smirk that Connor pretends not to notice when he asks for a glass of bourbon

“So, Chris just left.”

Connor huffs, wonders what the barman is getting at. He turns to see the couple at the end of the bar watching him with a phone stuck in the air, any semblance of respecting his privacy apparently gone. Because, obviously. So much for a night of peace.

“He did?”

“He did.” Jeffrey crosses his arms, squints across at him. Trying to figure him out. Connor supposes it’s him playing bad cop. “Hank and I’ve been buddies since I bought this place, goin’ on a decade now. Pretty sure I know more about that man than I care for.”

“Okay..?”

Jeffrey snorts. “What I mean is, you came out of there unscathed, he isn’t exactly the romantic type. I’m just warning you,kid, he isn’t looking for anything.”

Connor squints. “You _told_ me to go say hi, and now you’re, what, mad that I did?”

“Jesus, kid, I’m just telling you the truth, you don’t need to-”

Jeffrey is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Connor spins around on the stool, glad for the distraction, even gladder to see that it was Hank.

“Hi,” He breathes, has the urge to push up his glasses, play with his hands.

“Hey,” Hank pulls at his jacket sleeve. “Ready to go?”

Connor downs the rest of his bourbon. “Yep, so ready.”

Hank’s lips turn up, fall when he looks over to Jeffrey and notes the scowl on his face. He offers a hand to help Connor off the stool, eyebrows raised in question. Connor smiles, trails his finger along a prominent vein on Hank’s wrist.

“Thank you for the drink,” He nods at Jeffrey, wiping excess liquid from the corners of his mouth and pulling himself up.

“Sure.”

He catches Hank watching him and it makes him squirm. He says his goodbyes, thanks Jeffrey for the set, and the bartender mutters his own goodbyes to the pair of them.

Hank’s hand doesn’t leave his arm until they’re outside when he drops it, index fingers trailing the back of his bicep, elbow, all the way down forearm. Connor blames his shiver on the weather.

“What was that about?” Hank questions after a couple minutes of walking through dimly lit back alleys, light dancing over his face.

The main streets were too much a risk thanks to paparazzi and he did _not_ fancy trying to explain to the media the next day why the fuck he’d been spotted leaving a bar with a stranger in the middle of the night. Hank seemed to understand without saying a thing, had noticed his unease and turned down another street.

“Nothing, really.”

Not a lie, per se. Just not the full truth - he didn’t want to upset the guy by bad-mouthing his friend, he wasn’t a complete idiot.

Hank hums, stops in the doorway of some place. A bar, most likely. There’s Christmas lights adorning the windows, a wreath on the door that actually appears to be wooden. It’s cute. Hole in the wall, type place. Somewhere he hasn’t been himself in a long time.

He crosses his arms, regards Connor with his chin up. “You sure? He wasn’t giving you shit?”

“Well. Yeah.” Connor snorts, deciding that the brick behind him is ideal to lean against as he watches Hank ponder what to do, his hands twitching. “Your friend’s a bit of a dick, to put it lightly.”

Hank snorts out a laugh. The lights flash at a slower pace now. Red, gold, blue and back again. They bathe his face in gold and Connor’s only, primary thought is that he’s gorgeous.

“Yeah, he is. I wouldn’t say a _bit_ , though. More colossal.” He chuckles. “I’m sorry if he pissed you off, he’s got a knack for it.”

As he talks, he realizes that Hank has a gap between his front teeth.

It’s easily the most important takeaway from this entire conversation. Connor tries his best not to think about his teeth scraping at his inner thigh, leaving indents in his lobe. Wonders what it must feel like to have his skin between them.

“Think he was trying his hand at shovel talk,” Connor’s head ducks as he hides his flush, looks back up to Hank watching him.

“Guess it didn’t work all that well,” Hank says after a moment of silence, a whole cycle of color from red to blue passing over his smiling face. Connor feels one of his own split his lips, something genuine and true and not for the sake of someone else. There’s nobody here to scrutinize him, tell him what to do and say. He can just... be. Fuck up, do what he likes.

“Guess not,” It comes out pretty breathless as Hank steps closer, eyes fluttering shut the second his hand touches his skin. Hank cups his jaw, thumbing his cheek. Connor marvels at how his hand could easily wrap around his throat and that- isn’t that something.

Hank’s just.. looking at him. It makes him squirm. It's an uncomfortable feeling, to be watched so closely, Hank close enough that he can feel his breath on his lips. There’s cameras, strangers’ faces in his space every day, critiquing everything he says, but this? Just one man. This couldn’t be more different. Because what Hank is thinking matters. For whatever reason.

Hank’s leaning into him, the hand not caressing his face against the wall behind him. Connor doesn’t have to think twice about it when he leans up to kiss the smirk off of Hank’s lips.

Hank thumbs his bottom lip, pulls it down. Connor complies easily, meeting Hank’s eyes when he sucks the tip of his digit into his mouth, groans around it. Hank’s breathing quickens, and two things happen at once.

Connor sucks the digit in further, testing Hank. He swirls his tongue around it and runs it along the pad. Hank’s gaze is fixated on his mouth, eyes dark, mouth open in a perfect, little O. It seems to work because Hank pulls his hand back and replaces it with his tongue.

Connor moans into it, muffled, own hands dangling at his side.

Hank pulls him up and closer, arm hooked around his waist. He paws at Connor’s belt loop, thumb skirting exposed skin and Connor’s mind fucking _blanks_. He tangles his hands in Hank’s hair and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Lets Hank take reign of the kiss, of him, backing him up until his shoulder scrapes and he’s too turned on to care.

There’s a knee parting his thighs and he lets them fall apart, breaking away to whine when Hank near brushes his dick and that’s- that’s too much.

He’s better than getting off in an alley with an insanely hot guy double his size not an hour after they met.

He is.

(He isn’t.)

“Hold up,” Connor gasps when they break away to breathe. “What is- what happened to the bar?”

Hank laughs, noses against his jaw and scrapes at a spot with his front teeth. “That bad?”

Connor breathes out a giggle that definitely comes out as more of a whine, tangling his fingers in blonde curls, can’t help it. Because what the fuck is this? He’s in the middle of making out with a man he met that night, not even an hour ago. It’s not him. And yet, that’s what makes him want this _more_.

It’s all kinds of sad that he can’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed himself like this offstage. Actually, he can barely remember the last time he wanted to be fucked.

“Definitely not,” Kisses pressed below his ear, skin sucked between teeth in a way that has his toes curling. He fails to fight off his chuckle that comes out as more of a moan. “But I did ask you out, it’d be awfully rude of you to bail on me.”

Hank stands back just a little, and Connor has to fight not to follow after. He mourns the heat already and, God, he may as well be begging for it at this point.

Hank looks down at Connor with his lips spread in a smirk like he knows how desperate he is, clicks his tongue against his teeth.

“Alright, but it isn’t nothing swanky. Just somewhere out of the way, nothing like whatever I’m sure you’re used to your pretty face buying.”

Connor pretends that that doesn’t hurt and smiles. Steps forward and tries to ignore how wet he is over necking like teenagers.

“Perfect.”

* * *

True to his word, the place is small, occupies two dozen people at most, and is at the end of a street Connor hasn’t heard of. It’s comforting.

They sit in a booth that has more than one tear in the leather and stains that are definite health violations, but Hank’s hand is a permanence on his thigh under the table, so. He couldn’t give less of a shit if he tried.

“Okay,” Hank peers down at the half-full glass of whiskey he’s been nursing for the past hour. Tips a mouthful back, keeping eye contact with Connor the full time. “Performing aside, where’s your favorite place you’ve been?”

Connor sits back, lets his legs fall open just a fraction. Hank’s grip tightens, and he suppresses a groan.

“Cairo, um, was insane. Simon and I left promo, for our album or something, and visited the pyramids. Typical baseball hat and glasses mask, obviously. It was so beautiful, and I could actually, like, enjoy it without phones in my face the whole time. What about you?”

“Well I’ve never earned enough from this to leave the states, so I don’t know. Wyoming was gorgeous.” Hank lets out a chuckle, scratches at his brow. “Y’know, you really make the whole thing sound real shitty. You don’t enjoy it?”

“I don’t.. hate it. I like performing, the whole.. Thing.. of touring and the music, obviously. There’s just a lot of shit that comes with it.” He thinks back to that couple eyeing him up at the bar. “I can guarantee there’s already a dozen photos of me with Jeffrey nursing a glass posted somewhere.”

“Shit,” Hank blows out a breath. His fingers dance on Connor’s thigh now, grip looser. “Is it worth it to you? Having your everything out there for the world to see and all.”

“Some days it isn’t,” Connor answers truthfully. There’s no point in skirting around it. It sucks sometimes, and he’s on top of the world for the rest. “I deal with the bad shit because I love it too much to give it up, I don’t know. Probably sounds ridiculous to you.”

“You don’t sound ridiculous. But you shouldn’t have to,” Hank frowns, eyeing Connor’s empty glass. “If you love it, why’d you end up in that bar watching me croon out music?”

Connor sighs, thinks of the shit he’s going to be in tomorrow. Of Markus and Simon and, fucking Josh. How he’d just walked out on them.

His throat burns.

“Our guitarist quit today, soon as the show ended,” A bitter laugh finds its’ way out of his mouth. “Funny, he said he couldn’t deal with any of this anymore.”

Hank remains silent, rubs Connor’s inner thigh in what he gathers is meant to be a soothing gesture. It makes his face heat up all the same. Not because there’s anything inherently sexual about it, no, practically the opposite. Physical intimacy is something of a rarity. He couldn’t even remember the last time he got touched like this, even when being fucked somewhere that wasn’t some grungy bathroom.

Maybe that’s why he’s latched onto Hank; hot, kind, and _willing._ He was too good to be true. And he didn’t want this to end. And isn’t that all levels of sad.

“So it’s funny we’re having this conversation because I’m pretty sure the band’s fucked, now, anyway. There’s no way we-”

He looks across to Hank. The man is a phenomenal guitar player, works the strings like an extended limb, and he certainly had everyone back at Jeffrey’s bar in his palm.

Hank seems to gather what he was going to suggest, because he shakes his head. “Nah. Sorry, kid.”

“Alright,” Connor shrugs, laughs a little. “Worth a shot, I guess. We need someone good, and you’re amazing. At least think about it.”

Connor watches as Hank wets his lips. “You normally ask guys you meet in bars to play with you?”

“Only you,” Connor bats his lashes, biting into his lip to hold in laughter.

Hank throws his hand up with a snort. “Jesus, fine, whatever, but that definitely ain’t a yes.”

“Thanks,” He grins. Gets a smile back, and feels his toes curl.

“S’alright.”

The moment passes, and their previous conversation picks up again.

Hank tells him about his earlier years, and the recent ones, hitchhiking from Michigan to Nebraska, California, Kentucky and back again. Stopping in New York, settling down and trying a little of everything. His reveal of thoughts of becoming a detective once upon a time has Connor a little hot under the collar, he had to admit.

A man this confident, this engaging, of in a uniform, barking orders and shit? Gets him more than flustered to imagine it. He supposed today was one of discovering new kinks he didn’t know he had.

And probably the end of his career, too.

But, y’know, priorities.

“It kinda bewilders me that you’re not a bigger deal,” Connor runs a hand through his hair, pushes it out of his face as he talks. “I didn’t recognise any of it. You write your own stuff?”

Hank’s hand, which throughout the entire duration of their conversation has been travelling and squeezing the same section of his thigh, skirts close to his groin. He sits, frozen, turned on like hell. And he can’t do a thing about it, definitely not here, not in public. Can’t let Hank see what a state he has him in; flustered, skin pebbled with goose bumps where Hank’s fingers brush, where his lips tease whenever he whispers a little too close.

He wants nothing more than to let Hank have his way with him right over this table, pin him down and make him keep his mouth shut, weight pressing him into the wood. Unable to get himself off. He wants Hank to eat him out until he’s reduced to sobbing his name, shaking and completely at Hank’s mercy. But he can’t.

..And that only turns him on _more_.

“Yeah. Most of it.. I don’t know where it comes from,” Hank hums.

Dark eyes watch him as he traces the tip of Connor’s dick through his jeans with his finger, movement completely casual. As though he were checking the temperature or flicking to the next page of a book that he has no interest in. Connor digs his nails into the wood of the table and he hides his gasp in his shoulder because it makes something coil in his gut. And Hank- Hank _grins_.

“Yeah?” Connor gets out, grits his teeth as Hank palms him, thumbs the tip and lets him buck up into it. Sits back to sip at his drink, and watches.

Connor leans his cheek on the table, bites at his lip as Hank continues in his ministrations. Hank chuckles in his ear, something about staying quiet, nips the lobe and soothes it over with his tongue.

“Please,” Connor all but begs, gripping Hank’s palm and moving it so that its directly over his dick. He wants- needs- those thick fingers curled inside him.

“You’re being so good, look at you. And none of them have a clue.”

“Jesus,” A flush mottled his face, heat high in his cheeks and lay rampant in the pit on his groin alike.

Hank paws at his sternum, grips his hip and pulls him up into his lap. With one hand. The same hand that nips his skin when he whines a little too loud, mouths at Hank’s jaw in apology.

Because they’re in public. Granted, hidden away at the back of some shitty little dive bar that has about a dozen patrons, but. He’d like to think he was better than getting toyed with in public by every sole wet dream of his personified.

“Hank,” He wiggles in the man’s lap, notes two things immediately. One, Hank is hard. Two, he’s fucking _huge_. Sucks a breath in through his teeth because he’s a fucking mess over foreplay.

Hank hisses, rests his forehead on Connor’s jaw. “You staying nearby?”

Connor thinks of Jeffrey’s warning, that this is nothing more than a one night stand for Hank. Just a mindless fuck. This is his chance to get out, to tell Hank that he’s not that interested. Thinks of the career he should go and salvage, a band to save. That he should leave, now, alone.

He doesn’t.

“I can call.. _hng_. Call my driver,” Connor grinds up into the fingers circling his entrance through thin denim, lets out a hiss as Hank’s bulge brushes it. All that separates them is a couple of layers, and the thrill shoots through his veins, waters his mouth in anticipation of having Hank’s cock in his hands.

Hank peers over Connor’s shoulder and back to him, clicks his tongue. “Sure thing, doll.”

“Fuck,” He leans his head on Hank, mouthing at his exposed collarbone. He wonders how they look to any of the patrons in the bar, if any of them recognize him. If they see how fucking desperate he is, ignoring how everything is hidden behind the privacy of the booth. The image makes him run hot.

Hank must take pity on him, lets up so Connor can pull out his phone and call up Kara.

She asks him to give her ten minutes, and he thanks his lucky stars that she deals with his shit and doesn’t question why he’s giggling down the speaker at one in the morning.

There’s a pitcher of water waiting when he gets off the phone that he figures Hank must’ve asked for, and he pours Connor a glass with the prettiest hue of red on his cheeks.

“I didn’t want you to pay for everything, gathered you’d want something that isn’t bourbon. I got a hunch that you get shitty hangovers, or something.”

“Oh,” Connor supplies, fighting the moisture lining his eyes because he’s so fucking kind, too. And that makes it worse. Thinking about how he wouldn’t see this man again after he has his way with him, just like everyone else he’s ever fucked. And it’s pathetic that he’s already mourning whatever this is. Thinking of the only thing greeting him tomorrow is cold sheets.

It’s fine, really, it is. He shouldn’t want more. They’re strangers, he doesn’t _know_ this guy. He’s just some pathetic lonely fuck projecting onto the first person to be kind to him that wasn’t his colleagues.

“Thank you,” He smiles anyway, and Hank mirrors it, squeezes his hip as he drinks.

It hurts.

Kara, true to her word, turns up a couple minutes after. Hank walks him out, hand spanning the small of his back, even holds open the door for him like the apparent gentleman he is.

Connor doesn’t bother with any pretense of civility. He presses close to Hank, his bare skin warm and, as much as he hates to admit it, comforting. Hank throws his arm over his shoulders, begins to trace thick fingers in circles on his bicep. Hank’s watching him with this small smile dancing on his lips, gaze dipping to his mouth and back. It’s too intimate, makes him squirm, and he looks away to Kara.

She meets his eyes in the mirror, turns pink and turns up the radio.

And, of course, because the universe hates him, he recognizes the beginning chords of Jericho’s latest single. He groans with his face hidden in Hank’s shoulder, feels the man’s chest rumble with laughter.

“You seducing me?” Tangling his fingers in the curls at his nape, Hank chuckles.

“Because of all the nauseating songs out there, I’d use my own,” Connor pulls back enough to watch Hank’s laughter subside into a smile, feels his own mouth betray him and pull up into a grin. Hank brings his other hand to Connor’s jaw, thumbs his cheekbone and Connor’s eyes flutter shut.

“You got a real pretty voice, Connor,” And he actually sounds _earnest_ when he says it, tips Connor’s chin up and joins their lips.

* * *

His phone buzzes in his back pocket as they approach his room, almost definitely Markus, and he wholeheartedly ignores it in favor of digging out his key card. Or, he would, if he could find it.

“I don’t know what I did with it,” He groans, trying his jacket. “Sorry.”

Hank leans against the wall in favor of watching Connor, toying with the pen he’d taken from the front desk. He pulled it up to face view, inspecting it. “Hell are you sorry for?”

Connor shrugs, bites into a laugh as ink sprays up Hank’s wrist and onto his face.

“Don’t,” Hank rumbles, eyes crinkled and gorgeous, “I’m suing these fancy fucks.”

“Oh, but it’s just _so_ hot.” Connor pushes the card into the slot, turning back to watch Hank dab at, and therefore spread, the ink as he pushes open the door. “The way that it’s all up in your beard, mm? I can’t control myself.”

Hank’s still laughing even as he shakes his head, dipping down to kiss Connor. Crowds him into the wall as the door slams shut, swallowing every dying giggle. Connor hooks an arm around the older man’s neck, pulls him down and closer for more.

He licks into the heat of Hank’s mouth, chasing the gentle whine that he definitely wasn’t expecting from Hank. His shirt is already unbuttoned to the last couple, and Hank pushes the sleeves off his shoulders. His eyes widen a little, hands pausing on his shoulders.

Connor stills, wonders what’s thrown him off, follows Hank’s line of sight to-

Oh.

He swallows around the thick, angry dread rising in his throat. This is where Hank tells him he can’t do it, pushes him away, runs out. He feels- feels small. Moves to cover his scars with the remnants of his shirt.

Hank stills him with a hand on his wrist, thumbing the skin. Connor lets the shirt fall, heart hammering behind his ribs. Hank presses his lips to the back of Connor’s hand, the inside of his wrist, meat of his shoulder. The moment that his beard tickles his first scar, delicately so, Connor has to blink away hot tears.

He kisses the second, standing back to cup Connor’s cheek. He thumbs the skin, and the digit comes back wet. He didn’t realize he’d actually began crying until now.

“I couldn’t care less, Connor. I don’t.”

Connor sniffles, nods, probably with too much enthusiasm, and pulls Hank down to kiss him. Licks into his mouth, tastes his own tears and the cigarette Hank had sneaked when Kara dropped them off.

There’s Hank’s fingers toying with the button of his jeans – stage jeans, he realizes. They get caught on the zip and Hank guffaws a little wetly in the little space between them.

Connor breaks away to help, laughs when Hank stumbles forward in their haste.

“Wanna call reception,” He grins, breathless, “Ask for some butter?”

“Crowbar, maybe,” Hank meets his gaze, face flushed as he grins. He chews at his lip, unabashedly stares down at Connor’s own. They still tingle, and the rest of him fairs the same fate. Hank’s attention makes him keen, dick pulsing, and he journeys Hank’s gut to where he tents in his pants.

Whatever Hank was going to say dies in a throat, comes out as a strangled groan, and Connor licks his lips. Pushes his pants and briefs down with a _lot_ more ease than his own. Because, of course.

And Hank is just. There.

It’s big, of course it is, thick, too. He knows his hand would barely fit around it and it makes his mouth water.

“Is this-“ Connor asks, forgetting what words are, hole clenching in anticipation. He’s aching, wants nothing more than Hank to pull him in his lap and- To use him. He wants to be split apart and put back together by him. “What do you want to do?”

Hank thumbs over a nipple, toys with it between two fingers. “Up to you, sweetheart.”

Connor takes a moment to process _that,_ and he tilts his head to the side as a whine slips out, makes sure Hank is watching when he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Because, yes, it feels fucking amazing. But he didn’t ask Hank back for foreplay.

He even bats his lashes peers up from beneath them. “Alright. I want you to fuck me. Right here, against this wall.”

“Christ,” Hank blows out air in a breathy, surprised laugh, runs a hand up his torso. “Okay, I can do that.”

Then Hank’s on him. His hand follows his happy trail, thumbs the center of his dick through his briefs and runs the pad of his finger over his entrance. He’s completely soaked through the fabric, and the fact that it’s the only barrier between having those fingers curled inside him makes his blood run molten red.

He shivers as Hank withdraws his hand to pull his briefs down to mid-thigh, the cold air of the hotel room hitting his dick, making his sensitivity increase tenfold. He moans under his breath, the sensation pleasant. Hank notices, because of course he does, and pushes a single digit inside him down to the second knuckle.

Connor gasps, getting a grip on Hank’s waist to stay upright, and grinds down on the digit.

“Fuck,” is grunted in his ear, low and gravelly as Hank’s girth brushes his thigh.

Hank crooks his finger inside him, barely scratches at the edge of his g-spot, and he keens. Throws his head back into the paper thin wall because Hank doesn’t stop, no, he starts to thrust the digit inside him. All the way down to the last knuckle and back to the first, ensuring he curls it and strokes at his walls in such a way that he hits it every time until he’s reduced to merely panting Hank’s name.

“Fuck-” He can’t help the gasp, _doesn’t want to_ , and leans his head on Hank’s shoulder as he continues to fuck up into him with no remorse.

He’s not quite sure when the second and third digits join the first, nothing more than babbles leaving his mouth as he mewls away on the man’s shoulder because, _God_ , does it feel delicious. When Hank pulls them out, he finds that he’s soaked down to his wrist and it makes his walls clench around nothing in anticipation.

Hank takes hold of his dick in his fingers, strokes it with Connor’s own slickness, applying more pressure than before. A moan rips from his throat, high and drawn out and desperate as he shifts his hips carelessly. He doesn’t care for whoever’s in the room next door, the rest of the floor, couldn't care less about anything but the pleasure he’s riding.

“So gorgeous,” Hank comments without pause, looking down at him in awe. His hair sticks to his face, eyes dark and focused on every move Connor makes.

Connor’s already too fucked out to respond, hums as his head lolls to the side. Naturally, his gaze wonders to Hank’s cock. And as much as he’d like to come on Hank’s fingers alone as the man toys with him, watching him break, he wants that thing inside him already. Wants to be at the will of Hank’s cock alone, pulled him on and off it as fast or rough as it suits him.

“H-Hank.”

Hank smirks, still playing with his dick in his fingers, another just pressing into his entrance with complete ease thanks to the fact he’s absolutely dripping. Just for Hank. Everything is too much, his mind static, and he thrusts his hips down uselessly for something, desperate to be full.

“Ask properly, boy. What do you want?”

 _Well_ , that's. Something.

“You, please, just you, Hank,” He babbles, watches Hank’s cock twitch as he gasps through his name.

“Me, what?” A thick finger is curled inside him before Hank pulls it out, reaches up to his mouth and sucks the digit clean.

Connor’s responding moan is visceral, eyes rolling back in his head because. What the fuck was that. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life, so alive and such a mess. He reaches down, presses the heel of his palm to his cock as hard as he can, ruts up into it and gasps when Hank stills his wrist.

“Connor.”

“If you don’t-” He chokes out, continuing to grind up into his own hand anyway. Hank makes no move to stop him, moves his hand up to push sweaty, stray curls from his head. “If you don’t get inside me right the fuck now, I’m kicking you out of this room.”

Hank snorts a laugh, scratches at Connor’s scalp before pulling back. “Okay, I got you.”

Hank noses at his chest shining with exertion, presses a delicate kiss to the mole between his pecs. He’s still chuckling as he lifts Connor in his arms, and Connor gets the message, all too eager to wrap his legs around his waist with a grin of his own.

Connor nearly cries with relief at the first breach of the head, clenches around it and he keens when it pushes in. Hank goes slow, breathtakingly so, panting little moans in Connor’s ear. He’s so big that Connor, despite soaking Hank’s and his own hand, struggles to take it until he bottoms out.

“God yes,” He claws at Hank’s shoulder blades for leverage.

It feels fucking incredible. Hank practically splitting him in two, the pain just the right amount that it blurs right over into pleasure and has him mewling. He barely fits and it's no surprise that that makes his own cock pulse.

And then he starts to move.

Pulls out of Connor almost completely, lifts him back onto his cock and slams back in.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Connor grinds down in an eight-figure, so, so full and the drag of it delicious. Squeezes his thighs around Hank, egging him on and hoping like Hell he gets the hint to go faster.

“You feel amazing, so beautiful.” Hank gasps, much too genuine, thumbing his hip where he holds him up.

Connor tangles his hands in Hank’s hair, pulls him up to kiss him, quick and desperate, as he ignores his eyes filling with moisture. Again. Hank responds in an instant, licks inside his mouth as he thrusts.

Their skin is flush together as they move, panting pet names into each other’s mouths. Hank’s fingers dig into the flesh of his hips, keeping him afloat. How he has the strength to keep him up like this while Connor bounces on him like a bitch in heat, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that the display of strength makes his toes curl, digs his fingernails into the meat of Hank’s shoulder blades. It's unlike anything he’s ever felt, probably the best fuck he’s had in a while, albeit ever, and he can’t get enough of it.

He feels his groin grow tight with an impending climax with every slam of Hank’s cock fucking up into him as he grinds down into it, walls spasming around the sheer size of him.

It’s out of this fucking world good, Hank clearly practiced in just how to make him lose his mind, and it has his eyes rolling back. He almost doesn’t want it to end. It feels- he feels on top of the world, the chase of his orgasm approaching at such a drawn out, intense pace that he can just enjoy this. Cherish the feeling of being wanted.

Hank grunts pretty compliments that have his thighs trembling, knows his knees would be buckling and he’d be on the floor if it weren’t for Hank holding him up against the wall. He’s sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow, days after, a welcome reminder.

Hank hitches him up to get a better grip, moving his cock to a different angle inside him, and he screams. Arches his back, purposely clenching around him and milking him for more.

Hank makes no effort to quieten him, smirks against his shoulder every time he pushes back inside him.

He’s close, he knows, the intensity in the pit of his stomach building to an immense high. They’re angled at a way that his dick _just_ brushes Hank’s stomach, the friction barely enough to satisfy him, and it’s infuriating. Just enough to stimulate it, not enough for relief.

And he likes it.

Pleasure licks up his spine as Hank starts to piston his hips much faster, every drag intense and all kinds of absolutely fucking incredible. He must be close, now, thrusts erratic and desperate. Still, he manages to hit where he’s most sensitive with near every thrust, and when he pulls out most of the way again, he discovers his cock is drenched with Connor’s wetness and his own precum.

“You close?”

Hank sucks at a freckle below his ear, chuckling when Connor whines, nodding earnestly.

“Want you to come inside me, please.”

Connor whispers it like a dirty little secret, and he supposes that it kind of is. It’d came from nowhere, but now that he’s said it, the thought makes his blood run hot, especially when Hank’s movements stutter.

Hank stutters, squeezes his eyes shut. “You- you’re serious?”

Connor grins, breathless, “You don’t have to. But I’d like you to.”

Hank shakes his head with a breathless chuckle that transpires into a gasp when Connor grinds down on him, circling in a figure-eight. Impatient.

“If you’re sure.”

“Oh, you better,” comes out as nothing more than a garbled gasp when the fat head drags on his g-spot again. “I’m gonna-”

Hank’s movement quickens to desperate, inaccurate rutting. “Come on, Connor.”

All it takes is one last, delicious, thrust and his orgasm is ripped from him. A silent scream leaves his mouth as he pulses around Hank’s cock, squeezing the shaft. Milking him for all he’s worth. Hank follows, spills hot and far inside Connor with a groan. He’s so full, so, so full. And exhausted.

Hank gives a few more meek thrusts, chasing the tail end of his orgasm, and he’s so sensitive that he can’t decide whether to squirm or beg for more.

His exhaustion wins out; chest heaving against Hank’s, their heavy breathing the only noise in the room.

He tangles a finger in Hank’s chest hair, completely out of it as Hank pets his damp hair. Hank pushes it back from his forehead, chuckling as one curl refuses to budge.

“You’re incredible, and I can’t feel my fucking legs.” He says into the heat in the crook of Hank’s neck. He sucks the skin into his mouth, between his teeth, until an angry red rises to the surface.

Hank thumbs his lip, steals another kiss before patting his thigh. Squeezes the muscle as he speaks. “You should sleep. Clean yourself up in the morning, c’mon.”

Connor’s ribs feel constricting, and maybe that’s a good thing. Hank is just being a gentleman. He isn’t the first, or the last. Just the only one in a long time.

Hank carries him to the bed with minimal effort, and Connor’s dick makes a pulse of interest. But, he can barely keep his head up. And the comforter is so, _so_ comfortable. Warm.

He registers Hank rummaging about in the mini refrigerator, smiles when Hank makes his way back to him and places several bottles of water at his bedside table. Likely the non-branded shit that the hotel charges twenty dollars for. He couldn't care less right now.

There’s a dip before Hank is sliding in beside him, stroking his hand up and down Connor’s arm.

“I don’t normally pass out after sex, I promise,” He says, turning on his side to face Hank.

There’s a chuckle in response, a hand in his hair, and he’s more at peace than he can ever remember being since he made the mistake of letting himself become known.

“Me neither, but you took it outta me,” Hank smiles across at him, face golden and gentle in the fire of the lamp behind Connor’s back.

Connor grins, settling into Hank’s side, and lets his eyes slip shut.

He can deal with whatever comes tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> hank:  
> connor: brain machine broke
> 
> that's it that's the fic


End file.
